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Metal clanged, and grunts cut through the air. The day dragged on, restless. Bari and Don Quixote had clashed countless times; each bout meant to shake his stubborn decision to stand aside in the Bloodfiend war. He wasn't reluctant to fight; he saw no purpose in throwing himself into an endless conflict, for a noble figure such as he, intervening would have been both detrimental to his reputation and ultimately meaningless.
Neither the Knight nor the Bloodfiend yielded. Exhaustion clawed at their feet as they pressed on. Their movements turned sloppy yet stayed stubbornly determined, making their lone spectator wince.
No matter how hard they fought, the outcome refused to change. Fate had decided this battle long before those clockwork knocks and Bari's first challenge.
It would always end in a draw. That was their destiny. Locked in a stalemate, Don Quixote felt something new stir within him--admiration for Bari, the human opponent who matched him so perfectly.
His chest heaved in jagged breaths, but his gaze stayed pinned to her. A loose strand of hair clung damply to her cheek; a stubborn glint flashed in her eyes. The sight infuriated him, yet captivated him, painfully so.
Intrigue--rare for him--flickered to life in his mind, edged with respect and frustration. No battle had ever felt like this before. For Don Quixote, who so often found others lacking, Bari's skill and unwavering resolve drew him in, compelling him to seek her company and challenge her anew. So began their story.
"Bravo! Woundrous work, glorious as always!" The Bloodfiend flashed a toothy grin despite his fatigue and wiped away the beading sweat on his temple with a swift motion. "I could not help but notice a new manoeuvre within your stance. Prey tell, where did you learn such a technique?"
"You noticed..." Her voice came out breathier than anticipated, more matter-of-fact than questioning. "Many Fixers of the South use such techniques in battle. I picked up a few things the last time I paid a visit.
As she spoke, a memory flickered behind her eyes. She could smell the sharp tang of old rust and copper, taste the dryness of dust in her mouth, and feel the heat lingering on her face beneath a brassy sky. Shouts and frantic clanging metal rung in her mind, sliced through by the high, desperate cries of the innocent. Fear ran like a chill down her spine, tangled with grim resolve and a haunting regret that refused to fade long after the battle had ended. Her answer earned a thoughtful hum from Don Quixote. He laid down his lance and clasped his palms together in intrigued delight. "Outstanding... truly. I wish to hear more of these stories you speak of!"
"I took on a contract, of course. A mission. It stated that the Fixers who accompanied me and I must... ah?" Bari's voice faltered as a familiar sting pricked her awareness. She jerked her head down and finally acknowledged her weariness.
A cut.
It barely broke the skin--a shallow graze she'd earned by failing to dodge.
The ZBloodfiend reacted far more sharply than the Knight. He stumbled to her side and caught her arm with more urgency than grace. His cool fingers wrapped around her hot skin. The cut was shallow, but his eyes--glistening with concern--searched her face more than the wound, as if he needed to see that she truly felt no pain.
"A scratch," he sighed, relief softening his voice as his eyebrows drew together. "But one should not ignore even the most trivial of wounds! 'Tis my fault for being so careless. I even ruined your jacket..." Quixote's expression crumbled, and he swallowed hard.
He prodded gently around the injury. Bari's jacket had truly torn, sliced clean by Don Quixote's lance. "Allow me to tend your wounds as compensation for my mistakes."
He turned his head toward their spectator, who had huddled in a corner during the battle. Sancho, ever diligent, arched a brow at the sudden shift in focus. "Sancho, may you bring this to Nicolina? See to it that it gets fixed and restored to its former glory." Her father urged her gently. She responded with a curt nod, shuffling into the light to help Bari slip out of the damaged jacket. Once Bari shrugged it off successfully, Sancho spun on her heel and hurried toward the door. It slammed shut with a decisive thud.
"You really don't have to do this...!" The Knight muttered, cheeks dusted pink. Clearly, Don Quixote disagreed.
"Nonsense, Bari! It's common courtesy among humans, correct? Now, let us make haste to the infirmary. I wouldn't want such a flesh wound to grow infected."
They descended through the castle's maze of corridors and finally landed upon a stark white medical room. The smell of chlorine and industrial glue assaulted their noses. The room held almost no furniture--only a buzzing refrigerator in the corner and an impatient chair that seemed to scream, "What about me?!"
Don Quixote guided Bari to a stop and eased her into the chair, then quickly swept his gaze around the room. Within seconds, he returned with a small wooden box resting in his palm and snapped the lid open with a soft click.
"I'm surprised. I mean, you have all these supplies, yet they seem new and worn at the same time. Why is that?"
"Well, I had a bit of a doctor phase. Though, I suppose 'twas more of me toying around with medicine till my intrigue wore thin." Carefully, almost reverently, the Bloodfiend took her sleeze and inched the fabric up her arm. His knuckles brushed bare skin, trailing a cold line that raised goosebumps along her spine. Bari forced herself to sit still; every light graze of his fingers sounded louder in her mind than the sting of the wound.
He swabbed away the blood that had spread across his beloved's sleeze of skin, soaking up the leaking crimson.
Fresh blood welled along the shallow edges, bright red against her skin. The wound stung, but did not threaten her. Though it did nothing to calm Quixote's mounting panic as he fussed over Bari's arm with almost frantic care. Bari watched him, her features tightening with a mix of concern and embarrassment. No one had ever fussed over her like this; Fixers patched themselves up and moved on.
This... lingered.
She hesitated, then gently set her injured hand over his. The bones of his fingers felt solid under her palm, and the contact stirred a nervous flutter in her chest. Awkward as it felt, a treacherous part of her didn't want to pull away.
"It's fine," she murmured, trying to ease the agitation in his gaze. The faintest smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, betraying an odd comfort in his worry even as warmth crept into her cheeks.
"Sancho and I waltzed around as Plague Doctors for the day," Quixote mused. Bari's reassurance restored his confidence at once. "Needless to say, we did not cure any patients from the Plague. However, 'twas most fun!" A chuckle escaped him. When he finished patching the wound, Don Quixote pulled back ever so slightly to admire his handiwork.
That was when a scar glinted in the light and caught his eye. His hand moved almost of its own accord. He traced the faint, raised lines that ran along her arm. The old wounds lay pale against her skin; soft, warm, alive under his touch.
Her skin felt soft.
Unbearably so.
Bari's breath hitched. She could deflect bullets and dodge blades, but she could not defend against this---the gentle way he touched the parts of her she had long decided were ugly.
He lifted his gaze from her arm and met her intense stare. Quixote felt he could drown forever in those irises, in the sea-blue that met his crimson.
The air between them tightened, a fragile thread drawn taut. If Don leaned in just a little closer, if she let her gaze drop from his eyes to his mouth---something would break, or begin.
"You bear many wounds from previous battles," Quixote hummed, following one particularly deep scar with his fingertip. "Each with a tale of valour, I can only begin to imagine." Despite his urge to keep feeling that silk-smooth skin, Don reluctantly pulled his hand away.
"... You always speak of tales born from various Fixers, but for once, I wish to hear some about yourself."
"I got most of them early on. During my rookie years," Bari muttered, rubbing her own arm with unconscious judgment. "Believe it or not, I was extremely clumsy--a nervous wreck. That, of course, made my strikes open and sloppy. I got injured constantly in battle. Yet with each scar that marked me, I learned more about myself."
"It seems you collect scars as if they were badges of honour."
"They might as well be," Bari said, indulging him. She tried not to linger on her battles. Dwelling on the past and wallowing in failure only broke a Fixer. But the way Quixote spoke about her mistakes so easily made her see them differently. They did not declare her incompetence; they marked her growth.
The Bloodfiend pointed to a specific scar, not far from the deep, healed gash on her arm. "Allow me to guess... perhaps, 'twas earned from an incredulous adventure with your fellow Fixers?"
Bari smothered a chuckle. "Not exactly. I was helping an old lady get her cat down from a tree. The little kitten did not enjoy being lifted."
"How familiar... like a certain one of my Children who skulk around here. The little creature likes nought but her owner, I fear." Don Quixote matched Bari's restrained laughter and laced his fingers through hers. He admired the contrast in their temperatures — her warmth and his coolness mingling like Yin and Yang.
Delight shimmered in his piercing gaze, and Bari's bashful blue eyes mirrored his red. They were opposites, yet so undeniably similar in ways Quixote could not put into words. Something warm and inviting stirred in his chest, dusting his cheeks in scarlet. Bari smiled and tugged gently on his wrist to draw him closer. "Do you wish to learn my full story?" She teased, purring as Don placed his hand firmly on her thigh.
"Of course..." he whispered, his breath ghosting over the curve of her throat. The exposed skin of her neck looked maddeningly tempting; his fangs ached with a hunger that craved more than just blood.
The room seemed to shrink until it held only the two of them. Heat pooled between them, so intense it felt like their clothes clung to their bodies. Until:
"Excuse you."
A familiar voice cut in. Not Bari's, but one of his beloved Children.
The spell snapped. Don Quixote tore his hand away as if the touch had burned him, and he stumbled backwards. The warmth that had gathered between them scattered, replaced by a mortifying awareness of exactly how close they had been. Sancho stood stiff in the doorway, her face twisted with embarrassment and disgust.
"I do hope I'm not ruining your little moment here, but I've come to report that Nicolina will have the jacket restored posthaste." She let out a bitten-off sigh.
"A-Ah, I see. Thank you, Sancho." The Bloodfiend stammered and cleared his throat. He sprang to his feet and briskly dusted off his clothes. "I've finished my duties here as well. So, we shall have Bari finish reading that book of theirs, yes! Have you feel well enough, my friend."
The word "friend" tasted bitter on his tongue.
Bari exhaled with content. "I suppose it'd be cruel to leave you both on a cliffhanger.
Sancho scoffed and crossed her arms. "I'm not interested in that tale."
"Yet I saw you stealing a glimpse at the imagery, did you not?" Quixote humoured.
"That's... different. I'm just..." Her words trailed off as she gritted her teeth. With a huff, she strode ahead of them, leaving Don and Bari to exchange one last glance. "Let's just head to the throne. No point quarrelling over something so ridiculously trivial."
Quixote flashed Bari a toothy smile. "Resume your tale later, then?"
"Of course," Bari replied.
Her tone was dry; something unusual for the Knight. There was this edge of undeniable disappointment in her voice that made Quixote wish the two were never interrupted. But they shall persevere nonetheless, because that's what they always did... Right?
She'd... always be by his side.